My Hero

My Uncle George was a hero.

I have known this since I was a very young child. One day I was sitting on the packed mud of the British Army parade ground at Lucknow in northern India watching a Parsi manservant massage Uncle's corns with a paste mate from Ganges mud and Mango Chutney, when he called me to his side and confided this information.

"My Boy," he said, "I am a hero." You just can't dispute facts like that.

Uncle George spent most of his career serving as an officer with the British Army in India. Handsome and dignified, witty and erudite, athletic and an enthusiast for the delights of the ladies boudoir he was naturally prone to personal vanity, and was inordinately proud of the thick, curly red hair that covered his leonine head.

One night Uncle George was sitting in the officers mess at Lucknow barracks when he was approached by a very old bow legged woman. She appeared to be in late middle age but her legs were  very old bows.

"Forgive me sahib, but I am told you were a friend of Rufus Carew." She said in a very old woman voice that resembled two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together.

"Rufus Carew," exclaimed Uncle, "By Jove woman you speak of none other than Mad Carew! I was his messmate back in Aldershot. Last I heard of him he was living with an ape just outside Bangalore. Dishonourable discharge doncha know, he discharged into the regimental mascot apparently."

"Was it a male ape?" asked the woman.

"Certainly not!" George snapped, "there was nothing unnatural about Carew."

"I must tell you a terrible story," the Ummi said, "If you listen the things I say could make you wealthy beyond you wildest imaginings." This was a rash statement as George's wildest imaginings included bathing in curry sauce accompanied by Marilyn Monroe and Betty Boop. Even so he permitted the old woman to continue.

"There is a green - eyed yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu," she said, "on a little grassy hill above the town, where a broken hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew, while little yellow god sits staring down."

"I don't wish to know that" said George, kindly leave this mess.

"I can't" said the old woman, your nephew the writer put me in this particular mess and only he can get me out. And while we are on the subject his syntax leaves a lot to be desired, there is nothing wrong with my legs. Now do you want to know more about the Green Eye of the Little Yellow God?"

This is the Little Yellow God of bad poets?" George said, "I have heard of him now get on with the story."

"Well," the Ummi continued, " it is told that the eye of the God is worth a billion rupees."

"And what can I buy with a billion rupees," George asked.

"In London, a souvenir T shirt that says My friends went to London and all I got is this lousy T shirt but in India, anything you want."

"And you are suggesting that I should go and steal the eye of the God."

"I am only a humble messenger sahib, you must do as you will."

Uncle gave the woman a hundred rupees and she backed away bowing repeatedly until she was in the street where she was run down by a drunken mahout driving a high powered sports elephant.

Inside the mess Uncle thought on what the old woman had said. A wisp of smoke escaped from his pipe. Quickly he inserted a fresh wisp and reclined in his chair. In a state of great agitation he drew on his pipe. He also drew on the table, the barman's apron, and the soles of his boots, was there no limit on his imagination.

Eventually George made a decision. He must go north, claim the eye of the God and avenge the death of his friend.

To launch the venture he called for Arak and when the waiter brought a bottle of the firey spirit and filled his glass he cried "God Save The King" and drank, tossing his head back like a ballet dancer. (Its a family thing)

Several of the other officers asked what was going on and when George revealed his plan they rushed over to congratulate him. He called for more Arak and glasses and poured each man a liberal libation.

"To George and the British Empire," cried the senior officer and they drank, tossing their heads back like ballet dancers. (Its catching)

A week later George set off for Kathmandu accompanied by two native bearers who did not know the nature of his plan. With them they carried dry rations, a full set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, a liberal supply of Arak, a map of the London Underground Railway system, an bust of Queen Victoria's bust, a baby grand piano and a large hand mirror so that Uncle could check his precious hair each morning, all of which the two undernourished bearers carried on their heads. When they made had camp on the first night as they ate their curry around the campfire George, his tongue loosened by Arak, told the bearers to fetch their drinking cups as they must help him celebrate.

He poured each man a measure of the potent spirit and they drank, tossing their heads back like concert pianists. (Even though piano playing is strictly prohibited in the Hindu religion)

"Why do we drink?" asked the older man.

George told them of his intention and how the venture would make him rich beyond Bill Gates' wildest dreams and both began to panic.

"You are a crazy sahib. It is madness to try and steal the idol's eye. What about the curse."

"But I've always been a better man than Carew," George said. The Indians went away and returned a little later with a Fakir who was totally naked except for a large hairy wart on his knee.

"Sahib, I have come to warn you not to do this thing. There is an ancient curse. Anybody who tries to steal the eye of the idol with suffer the worst fate they can imagine."

"But what about Carew," George asked, "he died honourably did he not."

"Alas no Sahib, he ceased to be mad and became a bank manager. He died during a prolonged economic recession through lack of interest."

That would certainly have been the worst death an adventurer like Carew could have imagined, go away you silly fakir," said George, "This curse is poppycok, I shall become the richest man in India and have my own personal hairdresser."

He drank himself and several complete strangers into a stupor that night and before dawn, fearing the god's retribution, the bearers made off with the piano. George had to struggle on for the rest of the way paying for everything with small change because he was left without a note.

When he found the grassy hill, gratified the carnal desires of the distraught young woman who wailed by the grave of Mad Carew and further comforted her by pouring two glasses of Arak which they drank, tossing their heads back like ballet dancers, he found it simple to steal the eye of the God.

Uncle returned to Lucknow as quickly as he could and three days later slept in his own bed having visited the mess and told his friends the legends of the curse were superstitious nonsense.

On waking the next morning my uncle ran his fingers through......nothing. He was sitting up in bed, his glorious hair still lay on the pillow. George was not found for several hours and then was rushed to hospital suffering from acute embarrassment. The doctors made him remain in intensive care until his hair had been woven into the most magnificent and realistic ginger wig anybody had ever seen. About a year after resuming his duties Uncle George was drilling some recruits on the parade ground one day when a large bird of prey swooped down and snatched his wig, flying off towards the distant mountains before anybody could react.

Distraught George left the army and spent his days roaming India searching for a fakir who could reverse the curse of the idol and make his hair grow again. He bathed his head in yaks milk, he applied a poultice of Ground rice, Strawberry flavoured ghee, Cardomon paste and Fisherman's Friend lozenges, he swam in the River Ganges, drank his own urine and listened to Kanye West records all to no avail. All his fortune was squandered in the futile quest for a remedy but George's head remained as hairy as a pool ball.

Years later while in the Himalayans seeking Yeti dung in the hope that the hairy creature's droppings would contain some mystical gene altering substance capable of restoring his hirsute glory George was nearing the top of a high peak when a strange incident occurred. He came upon and Eagle's nest lined with ginger human hair.

Even stranger, it was not George's.

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